


but his hands are clean

by coricomile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Sharing Clothes, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s seen time stand still. It’s nothing at all like this, but he can understand how people could get it confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but his hands are clean

**Author's Note:**

> Technically my second go at Torchwood fic, but the first one's waiting for Big Bang season. Hello. I will contribute nothing to this fandom but alternating slice of life and kinky porn.

Jack tucks the little gray box into his pocket and makes a note to have Tosh look at it in the morning. He thinks he recognizes it from a bazaar in the 32nd century, but he’s never counted on his own memory. Too much stuff in there, and not all of it necessarily real. 

The Hub is dark when he walks in, the alarm announcing him to the empty rooms. He’s tired from hair to heels, but there’s always more to do. There will always be more to do. It’s what he signed on for. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Torchwood filling his head and his time. 

Forever is an impossible concept when it’s real. 

Jack checks the computers, shutting down Gwen’s station and reading through a half-finished report on Owen’s desk. He places the gray box next to Tosh’s mouse. Even with everyone gone, the machines hum and the creatures in the basement groan and call for each other. He closes his eyes and listens to the waterfall. 

He’s seen time stand still. It’s nothing at all like this, but he can understand how people could get it confused. 

Muscle memory leads him through the motions of checking alarms and turning the CCTV onto a new hard drive. He can’t wait until things become fully functional on their own. Mainframe is ahead of its time. Jack feels a certain fondness for it. 

He hangs his coat on the rack in his office, the weight off his shoulders enough of a dismissal for him. He’s the boss, he tells himself as he looks at the overflowing stacks of paper gathered on his desk. It’s only right he gives himself the same time off as he does the rest of them. 

It shouldn’t be surprising to see the hatch of the bunker open, but it always is. He’s quiet as he climbs down, eyes adjusted enough to the dark to let him see the lump of Ianto’s body huddled on the bed. When he slides the the floor, he lets himself just watch. 

Ianto’s curled in on himself, bare knees tucked to his chest and head pillowed on his arm. It takes a moment to realize that the t-shirt and boxers Ianto’s wearing came from his own dresser. He grins and tucks his fingers into his braces. 

Jack has never been a possessive person. The time he was brought up in, maybe, or the necessity of knowing that eventually the ones he loves will always, always leave him in the end, no matter how tightly he tries to hang on. Jealousy, possessiveness. They’re useless emotions to him. 

But seeing Ianto tucked neatly into his bed, wearing his clothes like he belongs in them, it makes something warm and bright settle into his chest. Quietly, he sloughs out of his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. In the morning, Ianto will pick them up, add them to the laundry, and bring them back hours later pressed and smelling of wash powder. The routine has grown nicely on him.   
Jack crawls onto the old mattress and settles in next to Ianto. The covers are trapped under them, and the bunker is always just a little too cold, but Jack doesn’t have the heart to make Ianto move. 

Not that it matters. A moment later, Ianto’s eyes blink open and land sightlessly on him. He smiles faintly, shuffling mindlessly towards Jack’s warmth. His fingers and toes and shins are like ice against Jack’s skin, but Jack tries not to flinch away. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, brushing a hand over Ianto’s hair. It’s soft and still damp from shower. 

“Didn’t think you’d be back so early,” Ianto mumbles, sleep heavy voice muffled and thick. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes before yawning hugely. It makes his nose wrinkle like a child’s. Jack traces the side of it with one fingertip for no other reason than he can. 

“I’m a modern wonder,” Jack says brightly. “I see you’ve found the wardrobe.” He tugs at the t-shirt. It’s soft, wear holes on the shoulders and at the hem, warm from Ianto’s body. It’s the same as a hundred others, but now it’ll smell of Ianto’s soap and skin. 

"Got something on my trousers," Ianto murmurs, turning to rest his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack thinks of all the suggestive comments he could make, thinks of the beautiful banter Ianto always gives him to play with, but keeps his mouth shut. “I’ll wash them in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jack wraps his arms around Ianto, wishing for the thick quilt at the foot of the bed but too reluctant to grab it. 

Ianto falls asleep again almost immediately, his soft breaths deep and even against Jack's collarbone. Jack presses his face to Ianto's damp curls and smiles to himself. 

Not a bad way to end the night.


End file.
